


Transference

by secretagentloverman



Category: Actor RPF, Captain America RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Anxious Chris Evans, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 22:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10795926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretagentloverman/pseuds/secretagentloverman
Summary: Chris has panic attacks. Sebastian helps.





	Transference

**Author's Note:**

> ahhhhhh what is this

 

 

 

Chris is having an off-day. 

He can't seem to nail any of his lines in this scene. He makes a fool of himself in every take by stumbling over his words or delivering flat or just plain forgetting his line. The grips have been consistently coughing uncomfortably for the past half hour and the first AD has resigned to staring down at her shoes. Even Mackie has stopped with the jibes and is just kind of looking at him pityingly with a tight smile. A quiet Anthony is never a good sign.

It's bad. Really bad.  

Joe decides he's had enough and calls for a break. He calls Chris over. 

Chris is walking his way when Mackie stops him to take his shoulder in a firm grip and give him a little shake, "You're alright, man. Take it easy."

Chris smiles a self-deprecating smile to assure Anthony he's okay. 

Joe takes him aside, to a corner, away from al the pitying, judgmental eyes. His eyes are serious when he asks, "What's going on, Chris? What's the matter?"

Chris feels like he's gonna burst with that question. Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s wrong. He doesn’t know. He shakes his head and starts bouncing on the balls of his feet. He takes a deep breath. His tongue feels too thick in his mouth when he talks, "I don't know. It’s nothing, I just— I think I’m kinda in my own head too much?”

Joe looks at him, eyebrows drawn, nodding a little bit. He has one hand under his own chin and another on Chris' shoulder. His eyes are calculating and Chris can’t read his face. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m being a pain, I know, it’s just—” _My heart hurts. I’m a screw-up. I miss home. I’m having a bad day._

"Hey," Joe cut's him off with a light slap on the arm, "You know what, go take a walk. Go. It'll be good for you."

Chris nods, eager to escape. He walks away from Joe’s close-mouthed smile and walks and walks. He walks out of the set, out the studio, onto the lot with all the trailers and trucks and golf carts and people on smoke breaks that pause their conversation and give him fake smiles as they wait for him to pass by. He keeps on walking, faster now. 

His walk turns into a jog then a full-on run, until he spots a good place to hide — the wall at the far end of the lot by that one extra trailer that no one uses, where the crew stays away from. 

 He’s just having a bad day, he tells himself. He’s just having a bad day, is all. There’s nothing to freak out about. Chris paces and shakes his hands out to expel the bad energy. It doesn’t work. He closes his eyes and tries to practice his calming breath exercises. 

Everything is fine. Just fine. Fucking peachy. It’s not like he’s wasting everybody’s time on that set right now. Not like he’s disappointing all the people he respects with this sad excuse of a performance. Not like he hasn’t been home for more than three days in the past eight months he’s started working again. Not like today is his ma’s birthday and he’s standing here in a fucking parking lot, feeling sorry for himself, because he can’t get his fucking lines right—

It takes thirty seconds of Chris bouncing on his feet, trying like hell to keep his shit together until he can’t anymore and he crumbles. 

Chris sobs and he can't breathe suddenly. He can't breathe and he gasps and gasps, making everything go blurry. He doubles over, trying to focus on his boots, the scuffed toes of them, but he can’t and everything gets hazy. There’s something stuck in his chest or his throat and he thinks it might be his heart. He bows his head, opening his mouth wide wanting to get it out because it hurts, but it won’t come out, it won’t even let him fucking breathe. He can’t fucking breathe because there’s not enough air and he’s gonna die. He’s gonna die like this, on the pavement outside this abandoned trailer, alone, with no one around to see. He can’t breathe, he can’t— 

 “Chris,” a voice says from very far away.

 He’s drowning and everything is sideways and he’s falling down, down, down. He claws on the gravel beneath him and shakes, “I can’t—“

 “Hey, look at me. Everything’s alright,” the voice says again. Gentle, steady, trusting. “You’re okay.”

 He’s okay. Chris feels like his own heart is choking him to death, but he’s okay. He tries to focus on wide gray blue eyes and repeats this in his head over and over. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.

 “I’m going to touch you. Is that alright?”

  _I’m okay i’m okay i’m okay. Touching is okay._ Chris is still gasping but manages to nod jerkily. Then a big, warm hand wraps around the back of his neck and squeezes very lightly. A thumb and a forefinger press firmly on either side of the base of his skull and it does something important, eases the tightness of his throat and lets a little air into his lungs. 

The voice tells him to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth. “That’s good. You’re doing good.” 

The praise pulls a knot loose in Chris’ chest, so he keeps doing as he’s told. The voice counts for him with each breath: three seconds inhale, three seconds to exhale. He doesn’t know how long they do this — minutes, hours, it feels like — but his body finally calms itself enough for him to lift his head up and blink his eyes clear.  

“Here,” Sebastian says once Chris’ eyes are focused. He’s holding a full water bottle, ice cold and dripping condensation.

Chris takes it and paws clumsily at the sweat and tears on his face. He hadn’t even realized he was crying.  

“Sorry,” he says to Sebastian, sniffling.

“Don’t be.” Sebastian’s eyes track all his movements: Chris shakily uncapping the water bottle, Chris tipping his head back to drink, Chris wiping his mouth and flushing under the attention.

“Thank you,” he says, unsure what to do now. His body is still trembling and he doesn’t think he can manage standing up just yet. It’s slowly sinking in, the gravity of what just happened. All in front of Seb. Jesus. He’s such a fucking spazz. 

 Sebastian nods and watches him, concerned still, “You’re alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah I’m good, man. I’m good, thank you,” he clears his throat. “That was just— I’m really sorry you had to see that.”

“Don’t be sorry,” his voice is soft and worried.

Chris stirs, thinking about choking on his own breath and Sebastian’s hand on his neck, grounding him.

“Does this happen a lot?”

“No, no. Not really. Sometimes,” he shrugs, wipes at his nose.

Sebastian pauses, he won’t stop looking at Chris, “Is it like that every time?”

“That bad, huh?” Chris jokes and quirks a smile, trying to make it into less of a deal. 

Sebastian doesn’t laugh but he huffs a smile with his eyebrows knitted together. His eyes are tight like he’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with Chris or something. His hand is still wrapped around the back of Chris’ neck, but his thumb has unconsciously moved to that spot just behind Chris’ ear, stroking a little, trying to calm him.  

Chris ducks his head and watches his hands fiddle with the water bottle on his lap. He’s been mindlessly scratching off the label.

 “Drink more,” Sebastian suddenly orders.

 Chris does immediately, a little overeager. It’s easier to do what he’s told than to do anything else right now. 

He vaguely registers Sebastian’s hand cradling his head — fingers winding through his hair, thumb caressing his cranium as he tips it back to gulp down some water. The water is blessedly refreshing and it runs through him, satisfying, the coolness of it calming him. When he pulls his lips from the bottle he opens his eyes, having not realized he’s closed them, and looks up at Sebastian. 

His face has changed. His eyes fare wide and licker around in wonder, like he’s figured out a puzzle. 

Chris has the sudden urge to bury his face in Sebastian’s chest, right there against his dirty red Henley, and be held by him for a while, just like that. He feels himself flush a deeper shade of pink.

Sebastian clears his throat and pulls his hand a way all at once and Chris doesn’t actually whine but his body involuntarily sways toward him like a magnet being pulled.

 “You think you can stand up?” Sebastian asks.

 Then Chris remembers where they are and what they’re doing and is suddenly extremely aware of himself sitting on the ground with Sebastian crouching next to him, their bodies close and curled towards each other. He laughs shakily as he gets on his feet, feeling stupid. “Yeah, yeah. Fuck. They’re probably wondering where we are huh?” He feels embarrassed now, too vulnerable. “Did they send you out to look for me or something?”

 “No,” Sebastian’s eyes flash. “No, I— just wanted to know if you were okay. Seemed pretty rough back there.”

 “Oh. Well thank you I, um,” Chris can’t meet his eyes. “That was– Thanks, Seb.”

 Sebastian nods and smiles, all polite. He bites his lip like he’s trying not to say something.

 The air between them has changed. He can’t believe he lost his shit in front of Sebastian like that; he just wants to get out of here. Go wherever there’s more people. Go home and hide. God, he’s such a piece of shit.

 “So we should head back probably,” Chris shoves his hands in his pockets, starting to walk away. He chuckles and rubs the back of his neck. “Carry on with the shit show.” 

They walk back to set in silence, a good three feet apart, Chris makes sure of it. He’s fidgety the entire way — wringing his hands, scratching his head, biting his nails, trying to tell his brain to shut up enough for him to do his fucking job.  

Of course Sebastian watches him from the corner of his eye the whole time because when they’re almost there he stops and turns to Chris and tells him in that voice of his, eyes all soft and piercing, “You can do it. Just one more scene, you can do it.” 

And then Chris thinks about Sebastian’s hand on his neck and his voice telling him to breathe and thinks _yes,_ yes _. I can. I will._

 

— 

  

His head hurts. They’re in some flashy club in Atlanta on a Wednesday night and Chris is so not in the mood.

 

He woke up at six in the morning and spent most of the day rehearsing fight choreo with the stunt guys and one of them managed to actually land a hit for real. Twice. It wasn’t the guy’s fault; Chris was supposed to block him but got distracted and received an elbow on the jaw and a punch in the gut for his lack of efforts.

 

It was on Chris, really. He’s been a complete mess the entire week, since that godawful day on set and the breakdown and Sebastian. He can’t get it out of his head. There’s an endless loop of that afternoon playing in the back of his mind: Sebastian’s fingers curled warm and protective around the back of Chris’ neck; the sureness in his voice; the weight of his gaze. Something prickles in Chris’ spine every time he thinks about it. The more he thinks, the more he craves — hungry for something he doesn’t really know. What he does know is that it’s fucked up, having this sudden obsession with his friend. He’s not supposed to want it, especially cause it’s not being offered. 

 

So he’s been doing his best to avoid Sebastian, which he knows is mean because the guy did nothing wrong, he was just being _nice_ , helpful, like any normal person would if they found someone hyperventilating alone in a parking lot, probably didn’t mean anything else by it. He knows that just one look at him will show Seb everything he’s been hiding. 

 

He doesn’t think he can handle the rejection or disgust. Knowing Sebastian, he’ll probably act all nice and polite about it too, all sad-eyed and pitiful. One hundred percent worse than him being an asshole, Chris is sure. 

 

It’s a blessing their schedules haven’t lined up in a while, which means Chris doesn’t have to try and fumble through excuses in any case Sebastian tries to talk to him on set or something. Chris hasn’t seen or talked to him in a week. That is, until tonight, the night everyone decided would be a good idea to get all nice and plastered since there’s it’s everyone’s day off tomorrow.

 

Typically, in light of that good news, Chris would be well into his fifth shot right about now, but he feels too raw and bruised up and tired and just not in the goddamn mood. He resigns to curling up in the dark corner of their VIP booth with his first and only beer and scrolls through his phone. 

 

“Damn, Evans,” Jeremy chuckles and looks him over judgmentally on his way to the dance floor. “You feelin’ your thirties or what?” 

 

Chris waves him off with a middle finger.

 

“You’re not gonna get off easy,” Mackie tells him like a disappointed father trying to teach his child a lesson. “Nuh-uh. I don’t care if you knock out on that couch right there, you ain’t going home ’til one of us goes home.”

 

The crew of the night consists of Emily, Grillo, Renner, Cheadle, Mackie and Seb. Chris slumps. 

 

“Consider me tucked in,” he says with a wry smile.

 

“Damn right. I’mma get you a shot,” Mackie decides and bolts to the bar.

 

Chris doesn’t even bother protesting, just rolls his eyes and watches Anthony wade through a crowd of people to get the bartender’s attention. Then, at the opposite end of the bar, he catches sight of Sebastian. 

 

It’s the first time Chris has seen him tonight and he feels himself flush, taking him in: his loose, long hair and overgrown stubble, his thick biceps and broad chest stretching his grey sweater. He looks handsome and soft. Sturdy. Safe.

 

There’s a pretty brunette with him and he’s flirting with her, talking animatedly, making her laugh with her head tossed back. She’s eating up every single word and look coming out of him. She’s honest to god even twirling her hair a little. Chris feels overwhelming empathy towards the girl. 

 

Chris shakes himself out of it and looks down at his phone. He starts playing Angry Birds and tries not to think about how he might have Opposite Florence Nightingale Effect or something.

 

A few people come up to him a few times, either to ask for a dance or just to strike up conversation, but Chris turns each one of them down politely. Eventually Mackie comes back and drops off four of the six shots he’s bought and runs off to dance with Grillo and Emily. Chris pathetically stares at the tray of Cuervo in front of him.

 

He searches for Sebastian at the bar but he’s nowhere to be found. From Chris’ view he’s not at the dance floor either. He’s probably gone off somewhere private to hook up with the pretty girl. They’re probably fucking right now. He probably has her bent over the sink in the bathroom, one hand in her hair and the other gripping her hip as he fucks into her rough and punishing. He’s probably cursing, sweating, grunting as he slides into her over and over again until he–

 

Jesus Christ, fuck it. Chris wipes a hand over his face then downs the remaining four shots all in a row, chases it with his beer and tries not to hate himself even more.

 

 

—

 

 

“Man…” Anthony looks at him now like a proud father. “You can always hang, you know that?”

 

“Jesus, Anthony. Of course this is your fault. He’s fucking tripping over himself, look at him.”

 

And Chris really is, but in his defense he’s wearing his new sneakers and the floor is really slippery. Grillo catches him by the waist when he stumbles and hefts up his body to balance him. 

 

“Oops,” Chris giggles into his shoulder.

 

“Someone’s gotta bring him back to the hotel,” Emily says with a straw in her mouth. It’s probably a mojito. “Not it.”

 

“Not it!” Jeremy echoes and everyone glares at him. “What? It’s only two am; the music’s just starting to get really good.”

 

“You go, Mackie. You’re the one that got him pissed in the first place,” Grillo says. He readjusts his grip on Chris, “C’mon, use your legs, buddy.” 

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Chris laughs and straightens himself up. Everyone’s being awfully concerned about him. It’s sweet. “Guys, guys, don’t worry. I’m okay, I’m a grown adult, I can handle myself.”

 

Everyone looks at him, unimpressed.

 

Then it’s like Sebastian appears from the shadows and says, “I’ll get him home, I’m about to leave anyway.”

 

Chris wants to protest but he’s too busy directing all energy in just trying to stand still, so before he knows it he’s being pushed towards Sebastian and herded out of the club and into the cool summer night air. 

 

“The Uber’s gonna be here in a bit,” Sebastian says.

 

The cold does Chris some good, grounds him and lets his eyes focus. Chris stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and curls his shoulders in. Sebastian steps closer to him. “You don’t hafta take care o’ me,” Chris slurs.

 

“I know,” Sebastian smiles, eyes bright from the street lights. “I just wanna make sure you get home alright. It’s on my conscience.”

 

There’s a beat and then: “She was pretty.”

 

“What?” Sebastian looks confused.

 

“The girl you were flirting with.” Chris tells himself to shut the fuck up, but it’s no use. His mouth’s an uncontrollable little traitor. “She’s very pretty.”

 

“Oh. You think so?”

 

“Yeah.” _Shut up shut up. Shut your mouth and run away._ “Did you kiss her?”

 

Sebastian looks amused now. “No,” he clears his throat, “No, I didn’t.” He turns his entire body to face Chris and tries to look into his downcast eyes. “Should I have?”

 

“No, I mean, yeah, I don’t— I dunno. Whatever— whatever you want.” Chris ducks his head and shrugs. His face is flaming red, he can feel it. He laughs awkwardly, “S’not really up to me.”

 

Sebastian hums and nods like he’s contemplating that idea. “But if it were up to you,” the corner of his mouth quirks up, “Should I have kissed her?”

 

Chris laughs at that because he’s really drunk and a lot nervous and suddenly kind of turned on. “If it were up to me…” Chris ducks his head then looks up through his lashes at Sebastian’s eyes. “I think you should kiss whoever you wanna kiss.”

 

Sebastian’s eyes have gone soft and his jaw slack, same way it did that day when he watched Chris’ throat bob as he drank eager and desperate from the water bottle he gave him. 

 

They stare at each other like that for a while: Chris squirming and blushing like hell and Sebastian standing stock-still, trying to read him. Then the Uber pulls up next to them on the sidewalk and Chris snaps himself out of it, reminds himself through his hazy, addled brain that this is all wrong — this is Sebastian, this is his _friend_ , and he can’t just go around wanting things he can’t have.

 

Sebastian opens the car door for him and Chris stumbles his way to the backseat. He presses himself against the door on the other side, curling up against himself, like if he made himself smaller he could maybe almost disappear and he wouldn’t have to deal with this car ride and his stupid fucking crush on Sebastian. 

 

When the car drives off, Chris’ eyelids grow heavy, fighting to stay open. Then a warm thigh presses up against his own and Chris feels his eyes drift close on their own. He lets himself surrender to sleep.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> tbc


End file.
